


truly, honestly

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fisk hadn't given him anything, hadn't thrown his weight or made promises that he wouldn't follow through on, but there was something in his voice, something in the way that he stood close but not too close and spoke softly, cautiously, that Wesley got attached to, that he latched onto and couldn't pry himself away from even if he tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	truly, honestly

**Author's Note:**

> This is... certainly something. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't expected to like these characters as much as I do but I wouldn't be lying if I said I sincerely thought I wouldn't ever write fic for them. I had considered not posting this (mostly because it's sort of ridiculous) but here it is anyway. The title is equally as ridiculous as the rest of the fic but I couldn't come up with anything better. Hopefully somebody out there will enjoy this.

Button his suit, take a deep breath. Blink. Inhale, exhale. Do what needs to be done in as few words as possible.

That's what Wesley does best, follows orders, tightens the threads of loyalty, pulls on them to make sure Fisk knows he's still there, tugs to show that nothing would let them break or snap, that he'd rather put his own fingers in harm's way than let somebody else take a pair of scissors or a knife to that string.

He had been like that for someone else, for another man with power bouncing from fingertip to fingertip like electricity but then Fisk had seen him, had watched him, had approached him after a meeting, complimented Wesley in a way that didn't have the edge of insincerity to it. He told Wesley he was wasting his time waiting hand and foot on a man who would be merely a footnote in a year, unknown and wandering down the streets in department store clothes in five.

Fisk hadn't given him anything, hadn't thrown his weight or made promises that he wouldn't follow through on, but there was something in his voice, something in the way that he stood close but not too close and spoke softly, cautiously, that Wesley got attached to, that he latched onto and couldn't pry himself away from even if he tried.

In all honesty, Wesley had already been considering packing his things, going back home or at least going somewhere else. This city crawled under his skin in the worst sort of way, made him feel like he needed to scrub himself raw every night just to be able to sleep and he couldn't bear it. There was smoke and pollution in his lungs.

He stayed because of Fisk. He allowed the city to plant invasive vines that tangled up into his ribcage because Fisk wanted him.

\- -

Wesley counts during the silence (one, two, three, four, etc.) whenever he's with Fisk, mostly when they're across from one another in the car, counts and knows what thirty seconds of non-verbal communication meant, what a four second break between one order and the next really was, what ten minutes of staring out the window at crumbling and roughed-up buildings told him.

_One, two, three, four, five--_

Slowly in his head, fingers barely tapping against his thigh because numbers had never been his strong suit, had to add and subtract on his fingers until well past age twenty and going through minutes using only his voice was like trying to not step on the cracks in a dry lake bed.

Was that five minutes or six? Somehow he always managed to figure it out. There was such a huge difference between five and six.

\- -

There are so many things he's done that the past version of himself wouldn't be proud of, that he would stumble and fall into a bottle of liquor just to forget for an evening but that wasn't him anymore. He left that old Wesley behind a long time ago and he was happy to slice that memory into shards like cutting up an old and useless credit card.

Fisk only asked him once, one very late night when you're just tired enough that your filter between business and familiarity starts to slide, what he had done, what he had been like before. "Before us," he said.

Wesley had laughed but it was done carefully, a laugh that was made clear that he was laughing about what Fisk wanted to know and not at Fisk directly. _At what you said, not at you. Never at you._

"It's not worth talking about," Wesley had said and that was the end of the conversation.

\- -

"Would you do anything for him?" Someone would ask.

"Yes," Wesley would respond, without hesitation. Truly, honestly, everything. Anything.

"Would you die for him?" They'd ask.

Maybe hesitation but only slight.

"Yes," he would say. Truly, honestly.

\- -

He doesn't love him, he likes to tell himself. _I don't love Wilson Fisk._

But he does. Not exactly the kind of love where, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine falling asleep in his bed, could picture rolling over to see him by his side, cooking breakfast and touching each other with any sort of tenderness but there was no other easy word to explain the feeling that scrambled in his stomach when Fisk even so much as glanced at him.

It was the only word to explain why he did what he needed to do, why he crossed every weak line in the soft sand years ago and never looked back, why he was willing to leap over the mouths of crocodiles to give Fisk just a few moments of peace in a lifestyle that rarely afforded it.

It had to be love because there wasn't much else it could be.

\- -

Button his suit, take a deep breath. Blink. Inhale, exhale. Do what needs to be done.

\- -

"Would you die for him?" They ask.

"Yes," he thinks, as the bullets rip and burrow into his flesh.

"Truly?" They ask.

"Honestly," he thinks right before he dies.


End file.
